


go after it

by TolkienGirl



Series: Vintage Winchesters: Season 1 Tags [11]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Eating, Episode: s01e11 Scarecrow, Gen, POV Dean Winchester, Vague mythology references, shortly pre-Faith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:07:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24922792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: Apples, apples everywhere.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: Vintage Winchesters: Season 1 Tags [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1777720
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	go after it

Apples, apples everywhere. Maybe Burkitsville had extras to ship.

Sam, jackknifed over the glass display, twists his shaggy head around just to look falsely innocent.

“So you don’t want pie?”

It shouldn’t be funny, but Dean snorts anyway. Hunting gives you a sick sense of humor, and Dean’s more pleased than anything else that Sam’s found his way back to that. Back to the near-death wisecracks, hoarding one-liners like treasure because they aren’t, yet, your last.

Dad had a thing for last words. Came by the interest honestly: ‘Nam and what followed. He quoted the last words of hunters he’d known. Melancholy-like, at times, or chuckling.

A sick sense of humor.

 _War, war, war_.

“Dean?”

“Yeah.”

“You want to eat…anything?”

He _is_ hungry. He missed one meal in the root cellar, and another in the orchard. The adrenaline took over for a while, rendering food and sleep mere distractions, but that’s long since gone.

The awful town and the lonely specter, Emily betrayed: all gone.

“Alright.” He can’t be too closed-off, thinking about the death of a civilization. Sam will ask questions.

They get a corner booth. They order sandwiches. Sam chooses whichever one has the most greens on it, even though it also comes with pickled jalapenos, which he picks off.

Dean does not ask, _How in the hell are those worse than the rest of your veggie mania?_ because he’s still stuck on apples.

There’s a myth about apples. Victory? Death? He doesn’t remember now.

Twenty-seven and his memory’s already gone to shit.

“So where’d you go?” he asks instead, deciding that he’ll beat Sam to the questions. “You know, when you stole the car. And saved my ass,” he adds, because that will make Sam less suspicious, less prickly. The acknowledgement of victory. Apples.

Sam shrugs. He curls back the crust of his rye bread, picks at the sesame seeds, eats the crust. Reaches for a napkin. “Not far,” he says. His bangs are in his eyes. His lies always sound like Dad’s, which is to say, they make Dean want to believe them. “Not very far, and then, you know. You called and begged me to come back.”

A twinkle, there.

Dean filches one of the discarded pepper-rings and tries it out. It’s limp and sour and sad. He returns to his pastrami.

“OK, then. Keep your secrets.”

Sam swallows another mouthful. Then, “It’s been a while since it was a god.”

Dean thought that too. Pagan deities always make his skin crawl. They’re too old. Older than ghosts. Older than most monsters.

“I’ll pass on the next few, thanks,” he says, knowing that he won’t. “Don’t need that human sacrifice crap.”

“And for apples!” Sam shakes his head. “Well, I guess…to my earlier point, apples equal pie. You would sacrifice people for pie, I have no doubt.”

“Bitch.” Dean finishes his sandwich. He doesn’t tear up his bread like Sam does, either. “Regardless, we’ve got a rawhead next. Good times.”

That’ll be easy.


End file.
